“Whoa, I’m calling time-out here…” Dirk furrowed his brow at her, bewildered. “Are we still spitballing?”
Of course they were. But there was no reason he had to know that. So Des said, “You tell me. She got you that job with the Leanses, didn’t she?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But what does that mean?”
“That you were still in touch with her, maybe.”
“She was like a sister to me,” Dirk insisted, his voice catching slightly. “We all grew up together-me, Moose, Takai, Timmy, Melanie-all of us.”
“And your wife, Laurie?”
“What about Laurie?”
“Is your life together back in Toledo as solid as you’ve been portraying it?”
“It’s rock-solid,” Dirk said, his face a tight, angry mask.
“Would she echo that if I called her up on the phone?”
“Okay, so we have some issues,” he said defensively. “Name one couple that doesn’t. I want kids. A whole bunch of kids. She wants to keep working full-time. My work takes me on the road a lot. She hates the road. She loves Toledo. I hate Toledo. But the important thing is I’m staying focused and sober. We can work this stuff out. We can work it all out.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Laurie?”
“Three weeks ago,” he admitted, ducking his head. “How did you know about us anyway? Have you already called her?”
“No, but you should. The more you talk, the better.”
“You sound awful sure about that,” Dirk observed.
“Only because I’ve been through it. He was in Washington. I was in New Haven. Our marriage died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, just outside of Trenton. You have to stay each other’s best friend, Mr. Doughty. The day the friendship stops, the marriage stops. So call her. Call her to say good morning. Call her to say good night. Damn it, just call her, will you?”
The charred remains of the feed troughs and livestock had been cleared away from the ditch out in front of Winston Farms. But a foul stench still lingered in the air, just to serve as a reminder of what had happened there- not that Des or anyone else in Dorset would ever be able to forget.
She cruised another half mile past the crossroads before she turned at the fire station onto Mill Road. Tim Keefe’s was the third house on the right, an old wood-shingled farmhouse with a sagging porch. His pretty blond wife, Debbie, was finishing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. Tim was out in his shop, she informed Des cheerfully.
It was a converted barn fully rigged up with a big band saw, lathe, drill press, router and workbenches. It smelled of linseed oil, glue and fresh-sawed lumber. Husky young Tim, with his ruddy face, walrus mustache and air of steady maturity, was brushing a coat of water-based polyurethane sealer onto some oak kitchen cupboards, ZZ Top providing background music on the radio.
“Come on in, Trooper Mitry,” he called to her, turning down the music. “Just getting your cabinets ready for installation. How do you like ’em?”
“They look great, Tim.” In fact, they were even nicer than she’d imagined. “Really great.”
“I think so, too,” he agreed. “Hey, we got those new roof joists in for you today.”
“So the roofers can start tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.
“If the weather holds.” Tim never, ever just said yes. Always, there was an if. “What brings you by-is it the Melanie thing?”
“You heard the news on the radio?”
“No, Dirk just called me,” he answered, continuing to brush on the sealer, his strokes smooth and sure. “Why would someone want to do an awful thing like that to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I understand you and Dirk knew her pretty well back in high school.”
Tim immediately reddened, just as Dirk had, and shot a nervous glance through the open barn door at the house. “That was a long time ago,” he pointed out delicately. “Before Debbie and me ever started going together.”
“You went to school with Moose, too, am I right?”
“You bet,” he agreed, eager to change the subject. “Absolutely.”
“How did she feel about Dirk?”
“She loved the guy, no two ways about it. Would have married him, too, if Takai hadn’t turned his head. Dirk, he liked Moose well enough, but he didn’t appreciate her. Not when we were seventeen, eighteen years old. Let’s face it-when guys are that age we’re drawn to certain flashier qualities in women.”
She smiled at him. “You mean you’re taken in by certain flashier qualities, don’t you?”
Tim let out a laugh. “Okay, you win. What Moose had going for her was intelligence and warmth and good, common sense. She would have made a fine wife and mother, a partner for life. Dirk would have come to realize that as time went on, but he never got the chance. Takai made sure of that,” he added with obvious distaste.
“Why did she?”
“Because she could,” he answered simply. “And because she never could stand Moose having anything that she didn’t have. That’s Takai. Hell, she never really wanted Dirk. But she got him. And she poisoned that well for all time. I’ve always felt bad about it, to be honest. If she’d just left him alone, cast her spell on some other poor slob, he and Moose might have had something solid together. Moose would have kept him level-headed, despite all of those ups and downs of his ball-playing career. He’d have a life there on that farm with her. He’d have been happy.” Tim finished coating the cupboards and went over to the work sink in the corner to wash out the brush. He kept an old refrigerator next to the sink. He offered her a beer. She declined. He pulled out a cold bottle of Corona, popped the cap and took a long, thirsty gulp. “As it turned out, neither one of them ever got happy.”
“And Takai?”
“I don’t know how that nasty bitch lives with herself. But she’ll get hers, and it won’t take any shotgun, either. One of these days, not so many years from now, she’ll be a wrinkled, dried-up old hag. No man will so much as look at her. And she’ll totally freak. That’s a day I’m looking forward to, trooper. I’ve got it circled on my calendar. And if that sounds small and mean of me, then I guess I’m small and mean.”
“Dirk told me you two have been going out together on your Whaler.”
“Yeah, we’ve gone out a few times since he’s been back. For me, being out on the water is like going to church.” Tim let out an easy laugh. “Actually, it’s instead of church.”
“I know I’m a landlubber, but it’s getting a little late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Not for lobstering. Best time to catch ’em is in January. Mind you, there’s a real art to it-you need a strong back and a weak mind. Me, I’m strictly what the old Maine lobstermen call a ragpicker. An amateur with six measly pots.”
“When’s the last time you went out?”
“Sunday. Got us four fine lobsters.”
“You haven’t taken her out since then?”
“Nope.”
“Could someone else? Without you knowing about it, I mean?”
Tim stared at her stonily. “Someone like Dirk?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance of that, trooper. None.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s grounded, that’s how. Her engine was misfiring on Sunday. I pulled it when we got back, and haven’t fixed it yet. It’s still sitting on a tarp in my garage. Go take a look,” Tim challenged her, his temperature starting to rise. “Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“Don’t get sore on me, Tim. I’m just asking you the questions they told me to ask.”
“Sure, okay,” he said grudgingly. Clearly, Tim Keefe was being protective of his childhood friend. He was also not someone who liked having his word doubted. “I understand. Go ahead and ask away.”
“Dirk’s marriage is not so hot, I gather.”
“Straight up, Dirk Doughty’s a guy I feel sorry for,” Tim said, taking another gulp of his beer. “You wouldn’t
